


Relinquishment

by zapacabra



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Abandonment, Graphic Descriptions of Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Loss, Self-Harm, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zapacabra/pseuds/zapacabra
Summary: Relinquish; to voluntarily cease to keep or claim; give up.(A character study for Griffith from Berserk.)





	Relinquishment

Why?  
  
After all they’ve been through? All of their hardships? Their battles? Victories?  
Did none of those memories matter anymore? Not matter enough to stay? To create more and continue on?  
Why was his resolve to leave-- To leave _him?_  
  
The stale air showed the heavy breathing coming from each of them. Snowflakes began falling, landing gently on shoulders that had gathered around. Snow birds quiet, seeming to sense the hard decision lingering on the hill that frigid morning. The only thing that crossed between them was a soft winter breeze. Much too kind for the looks they were exchanging with one and other. Griffith’s eyes pierced straight through the man he held so high, trying to find even a hint that might say he could change his mind. But, if anyone knew Guts or Griffith, they knew the two were too strong willed to shake from something that held importance to them.

  
He couldn’t sense Guts’ usual brazen energy. He had made his choice.  
_'Do you want to leave my grasp this badly?'_ His eyes did not break for even a second away from the deep-set, dark brown eyes, attempting to communicate without words, _'No...No, I won’t allow it…!'_ His mind began to race, trying to create some sort of plan and sweeping all emotion to the side. There was no time for that now. Knowing Guts for all these years, he had learned so much, grown along with the rest of the Hawks. His movements were still heavy-handed, but he had learned how to control and use the reckless technique. His misguided, random slashes were hard to find on the battlefield nowadays, unless something happened to get on his bad side. This winter had been one of the most brutal in so many years, would the cold hinder his own movements? _'No.'_ Griffith wouldn’t let it. He would never allow something so small and meaningless keep him from having a tight hold on his most prized possession.  
  
He had to make the first strike. When Guts’ sword fell first, Griffith would deflect the slash, slicing into the other’s shoulder. The wound wouldn’t be enough to severely hurt him, just enough to _show_ Guts who held onto him. Who he belonged to. There was simply no other way to snatch victory. Though, if Griffith did not concentrate, and was even slightly off in his timing, or angle of his sword…  
He could slice clean through Guts’ head.  
Griffith’s mind quieted for just a fraction of a moment, thinking of the possibility. _'If I cannot have him...'_  
There was no more time. He initiated the first move. Quickly, sharply, Griffith swung, and at the same second, Guts’ iron raced forward too. Two weapons clashed. The only sound that rang from the top of that hill was the sound of splitting metal, and the quiet landing of half a sword.

It was over just the moment it began.  
  
Thin, web-like strands, cut from Griffith’s hair, lulled in the air, drifting too dreamily for the situation. They landed on his coat, and crossed his vision only blurring the man in front of him for a second.  
Griffith didn’t notice. His eyes, so shocked and speechless. Everything and nothing ran through his mind all at once. Griffith asked so many questions, but nothing would slow down enough for him to comprehend or try to answer. What had just transpired repeated over and over in his mind. He searched for anything else he could have done. Anything else he could have done differently. Was it his timing? Did he jump too quick? Not fast enough?  _What had he done wrong?_  
  
He fell to his knees, dropping the other half of his sword. His left hand squeezed the wrist on his right, clean fingernails soon to be dirtied by the blood his wrist would spill from being dug open.  
This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t _supposed to._  
  
“Take care.”  
  
Those heavy footsteps, those footsteps he had grown so fond of, so close to the person carrying them. They walked away. Leaving him behind. All Griffith was was a _pebble on the side of Guts’ path._ There were no words coming to him now, only his wicked thoughts. Nothing to rationalize what had just happened, nothing to rationalize how he  _felt_.  
How did his everything _shatter_   within a matter of minutes? Crumble so easily, even though he did all he could to protect, and watch over him?  
How could he let this happen?  
Nothing was real anymore.  
It would never be, ever again.  
  
He felt numb.  
  
The other’s chatter was lost to him. Hawks tried to put the pieces together with each other on what they had all just witnessed. While the men tried to understand, and think about the future, Casca looked to her leader. “Griffith-- Griffith what do we do now??” Her voice showed her emotions very well. Her words stumbled from her mouth, a scared note hung on each letter, “Griffith, _please_ \--!!” She reached out to his frosted shoulder, trying to shake him from the state he was in. Before she could even get an inch too close, Pippin took her fur-lined wrist into the palm of his winter glove. He shook his head slowly.  
  
Griffith stood, lifting his head to face the others. Those icy blue eyes could have melted steel four feet deep. “I need to be alone for a while.” His eyes drifted across the ground, not wanting to look at any of the people still with him on the hill. He stared at the halves of his sword, resting in the snow.  
  
+++  
  
Guts had taken his travels to the west, Griffith walked to the east. He wasn’t going to chase him. He _couldn’t_ chase him. No matter how much he wanted to. The lone hawk roamed the woods, trying to make sense of it all. This all was so overwhelming, and so fast. He walked aimlessly, wondering if this was all a dream. It was, right? He wanted to believe. Unfortunately, Griffith was living in a very cruel reality. He accused himself of being the one at fault. Was it because he didn’t do enough? Did he _not_ show Guts how much he meant to him and the Band of the Hawk? Could he have done more? Should he have done less? He should have not been so torn up over one member of his mercenary band, but Guts was so much more to him than just any one person. All of his feelings of denial, that had gone unattended just a few hours before, began to fester even more. He felt weak and careless. Had he become jaded with all the won battles and winnings? Had he been that poor of a leader to cause one of his greatest assets, his most improved member, his most trusted _friend_...to run off because of something he missed so slightly?  
  
_Or was it even truly his fault in the first place?_  
  
Griffith halted when the thought came to him. Within the millisecond it took to snap two fingers, the snow-soaked clothing made his skin feel freezing cold, shoes stricken with hard snow on the outside and wet insoles inside, his pale hands webbed with narrow purpled veins because of the freezing cold weather--  
  
Sharp stings of painful thoughts were slowly overshadowed by something with a much more sinister vexation.  
  
There was nothing more he could have given Guts. Griffith had given nearly _everything_ to that man. He held him higher than anyone else on this entire earth. He _chose_ him from thousands, in fact he was the _only one he ever wanted to be this close to him._ And Guts, to take that so lightly...and then just to decide so _selfishly_ to throw it away? To leave the Hawks, to leave _him_ behind? _To give up on his dream so easily without a second thought?_ He clenched his fists, nails pressing into his palms.  
He would _never_ forgive him for the pain he had caused him. It didn’t just affect Griffith either. It would bleed out, affect everyone within a matter of time. The man felt _used, taken advantage of_ , but most of all, _betrayed_  by someone he had viewed as an equal.  
  
All of those foreboding thoughts in his mind fell into place. It was _Guts’ fault_ for all of this...this _pain_ , it was _His fault_ that Griffith was going to lose his hope at becoming king,  _His fault_   he was not going to get his own kingdom, _His fault_   for Griffith missing his shot at finally achieving his  _dream._ Perhaps  _the_ only thing he cherished the absolute most in his existence.  
_He_  was robbed of that dream this morning, his goals he had strived so far for...being turned into tiny snowflakes that melted in the palm of Guts’ hand.  
  
Teeth grinded against each other, his jaw was tight. Griffith’s twisted new light on the situation made him turn around, walking back towards civilization. He wanted so desperately to lash out, rid himself of this burden of believing-- No, _knowing_ what Guts did to him was a self-righteous and self-centered decision. The feelings boiling in him couldn’t be shared with the other Hawks though. There were sides and emotions of himself he could never show to them. And not because he looked down on those he spent his days with, not because he didn’t trust them, because he wanted to set the best example for them. So many people looked up to him, if Griffith showed any kind of unstable behavior...what would they think of him? A select few already saw him in a weakened state, and he didn’t want anyone else to pity him. The mask Griffith wore in front of those Hawks had been cracked. He didn’t want to imagine if the rest of them had to see him chip off anything else.  
  
Griffith searched his mind for somewhere he could go. Maybe someone who would not question him, or ask him how he was doing or how he felt that morning. A person who was too enamored with him to see past that pearly perfect mask…  
  
Princess Charlotte.  
  
+++

  
Entering the princess’ room after a few exchanged sentences, Griffith looked down at the water rolling off of himself, “My apologies, princess, for dripping so much water into your chambers,” He shook one of his hands, trying to lay down his hair a bit. “And my impoliteness of visiting you so late.” The young royalty pressed herself to his chest, even though he was sopping wet. She started to spew her words, crying onto his already wet chest. Griffith’s mind was elsewhere still. Still so focused on what had transpired with  _him._ She spoke of her stepmother’s death, caused by him unbeknownst to the young girl, scolding Griffith for not coming to see her sooner because she felt  _alone._  
  
She didn’t know the meaning of the word. He had dealt with that feeling all too much, and after that morning, he will never feel more _alone_  in his life ever again. All of those bubbling, toxic feelings rose to the surface, showing their ugly faces. He took her chin in his hand, lips meeting hers in an instant. He felt nothing. There was nothing in that kiss for him to give her, emotionally or otherwise. Griffith knew this was all happening so fast, he was too jaded to care.  
  
Apathetic expressions never left his face that night. The entire time he was with Charlotte, he thought of Guts. Visions of the broad man walking off, his last words polluting his ears. Griffith acted physically on autopilot while he traced the silhouette of the man he once held so tightly in the palm of his hand. There was so much internal conflict going on inside-- Was he _actually_ furious with Guts? Of course-- But what if-- No, he chose to leave-- If only--  
It was a never ending uneasy confusion that hung like a pendulum of unanswered questions over his head that he  _knew_ for certain would never be resolved.  
  
Clutching himself at the end of the bed, Griffith’s legs were pulled up to his chest. At that moment, in the darkness of the princess’ bedroom, he came to realize the weight of his actions that night. Taut shoulder skin was shredded, thin streams of blood spilt down his arms. He knew he solidified he would never be king. If Guts was a fuzzy reason that their chances could be lost, Griffith knew that he had just made the chance become fact. However, this would have never happened if _Guts_ hadn’t turned his back on him. Tears poured hot down his cheeks, naked body numb to the bitterness in the castle that night.  
  
+++  
  
"The hawk has fallen to earth, and will never take flight again."  
  
He swayed slightly back and forth in the room meant to intimidate, initiate the worst fears in a person, and sadistically kill those who have _betrayed_ their ruler.  
The disassociation from his present brought him to the people he held close. How would the Band of the Hawk fair without his guidance?  
_Whip!_  
Could they stick together without the lead of his hand?  
_Whip!_  
Would they eventually suffer the same fate?  
_Whip!_  
By no means did he enjoy any of the harsh laps of whipping, but he said not a word. He was going to accept what was coming to him. Accept the paralyzing knowledge that he would never leave here alive. It was the only thing he could count on for the rest of his numbered days. He accepted that he was going to die being tortured to death, _never_ completing his one _dream_ he had wanted the most. He smiled a little to himself, proud of what the Hawks had become before it all had come crashing down. There was a shred of hope then, that they would find a way to mend themselves and carry on after he had become just a faded memory.  
  
The king left, leaving Griffith in the care of the most hideous person he had ever laid eyes on. The thought that this was probably going to be the last person he saw before he died made him laugh out of realization.  
  
Hours passed. The ugly little man adding more and more to Griffith’s ever growing list of traumatic and horrifying inflictions. He chose not to ignore the pain. Every lash, every nail pulled, every burn, every brand, he remembered. Why hold on for any longer with some kind of false sense of hope when he could touch and feel hot irons pressing into his burning flesh?  
  
_Only after you lose everything are you free to become anything._  
  
The phrase coming to him out of seemingly no where. He never read that before, or heard it from another. He didn't bother to think about it any longer since he had more important things to worry about. The bulbous man had climbed a short latter, holding a pair of long scissors. Griffith wondered if he would lose an ear, or an eye so early on. “First thing I wanna add to my collection is your beautiful hair!” God, his stench was _rancid_. His hair wasn’t really important to him, just something people recognized him for. Though, even if it was important, why should he care if it was going to be all gone? A squeal from the rusty scissors was a tell-tale sign they opened-- and the _snip!_ was just as telling to say they shut. Light silver locks twisted to the floor, dropping so easily. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Griffith didn’t even notice how light his head felt with it all gone. There was too much on his body that was aching to think about how light his scalp was. The cutting continued until there was only a couple inches left. He wondered what he looked like with short hair, it had been so long--  
  
“Oh, what’s that??” The torturer leaned over Griffith’s sore shoulder, grabbing the behelit.  
Griffith reflected on his ‘lucky’ necklace. The old woman did tell him that he would gain the world, in exchange for his flesh and blood. Is this what she meant? Was this his pain and sacrifice? He supposed that was true enough. In order for his Hawks to fly free, was this the payment, trimming his own wings? Was this the necklace’s way of ‘gaining the world’? There was a weak smile that came with the dark sarcasm. The snap of the necklace made his neck burn a little. He watched the man fiddle with the behelit for just a moment, before it slipped from his bloodied hands, bouncing along the floor. It dropped through one of the slats of the large drain. Gone. Just like everything else.  
  
+++  
  
The pat-pat of small feet ran along the worn brick road. He had been chasing the hawk for some time now, playing a game with the animal who had no idea the child existed. The shining castle in the distance is what he ran towards. The bell tolling in the distance. He was so close! Only a little more and he could just barely reach the steps--  
Bright light behind him demanded his attention. Turning around, the child saw the broad shouldered man. The bell tolled again, louder. “Gu--”  
The man’s figure disintegrated into decapitated heads. One by one they fell to the ground, creating a pile. The young boy shrieked, running back towards the castle, only to see the same fate happen for the wondrous home. Thousands of heads, bouncing off each other, toppling down and creating a mountainous pile. The child fell to his knees, just as he would so many years from now. With his hands tight to his eyes, he wiped the many tears, scared of everything happening around him. Opening his eyes for just a moment, those icy blue eyes saw four figures on top of the heads that once was the castle he admired. The tallest one spoke;  
_"We shall meet again. In that time. In that place. We are kinsmen, oh blessed king of longing."_  
  
_"Gah!"_  Griffith’s head flung from its resting place on his shoulder, eyes splitting open. It was that dream again. He breathed heavy, panicking from the rush of the recurring ‘nightmare’ that came to him nearly every time his eyes were closed. Then again, nothing was worse than what he went through everyday. His thin body leaned against the wall, arms locked on opposite sides of himself, cuffed and chained. Bones are easy to identify under the once pristine skin, now riddled with scarring, open gaped wounds, wounds trying to repair themselves but didn't have enough nourishment, pain beyond one’s imagination. His eyes sunken in, lips cracked, thick scars across his cheeks. His eyes tried to focus in the dark stone room, trying to fully wake up from what he considered his night.  
  
Eyes landed on a red creature near his foot, pressing it's lips to his toe.  
  
When Griffith first was imprisoned, the hallucinations were relentless. They would appear so frequently and so vividly, Griffith would try to keep them away-- telling them to leave him alone. He practiced the phrase _'they aren’t real'_ constantly to himself, trying to hold onto the last bits of sanity. Training himself to ignore the visions, ignore the demons sending sweet whispers to him. They would say so many things, but the only name they used to refer to Griffith as was their ‘king’ or their ‘master’. He hadn't heard someone call him Griffith in so long. Eventually, he gave up on that too. Welcoming the creatures to be in his presence. They kissed his once soft skin, his fingers, the places where tears used to fall, but have since dried up. They were his only friends for whatever time he had left.  
  
The creatures scattered once the key turned in the door. Griffith immediately lost his thin smile, letting his head lull to look down. He knew what was coming. Today was bath day. The scalding hot water would be announced any moment, then he would have just a few seconds to prepare before it was thrown at him--  
  
_"LORD GRIFFITH_ \--!!! _"_  
  
_'I can’t even trust my own ears not to play tricks on me anymore.'_ He tensed, waiting for that pot of water to splash him any moment now--  
  
Those footsteps. Those heavy, heavy footsteps.  
  
Could it be...  
  
No! They were not real-- They weren’t real--  
  
He heard just the few short syllables of his _true_ name dangle in the air from that _voice. His voice._  
There was no mistake. That...that was him.  
  
Griffith looked up for just a moment-- Just to  _see_ if...He wished he hadn’t.  
The panic set in instantaneously. “You...you aren’t...no, you aren’t real-- You’re not real!! G-Go away!” His voice was so tattered, vocal chords weakened from so little use, “YOU AREN’T REAL!!!” He was trying to scream, he was so hysterical-- _Was this?? Was this real?? No...there’s no way they could actually be here--_  
  
His eyes snapped open again. Breathing just as ragged as it was when he had the last dream. The room was empty. Quiet. He was the only person, once again.  
A hearty laugh, riddled with despair rung through the dungeon that night. He was all alone! Not a soul was here-- No one was coming to save him-- He was truly and utterly alone. He sobbed through his laughter, eyes locking themselves open, forcing the visions behind his eyelids to stay at bay but coercing the demons on the outside to bleed from the walls, flooding his cell. The rounded, fleshy bodies squeezed from cracks and holes, all of the thousands of voices and bodies blurring together. The masses of creatures clawed their way towards him,  _thanking him._ _"Our blessed king, our blessed king...you don't have to wait much longer..."_ Griffith's voice shredded, tearing his vocal chords apart little by little, letting himself laugh too much for far too long. During the disenchanted laughter, desperately trying to clear his mind of anything that could give him a sense of hope...Griffith heard that saying once more, tolling like the bell from his dream, ringing over and over again.  
  
_Only after you have lost everything are you free to become anything._

**Author's Note:**

> this literally took me a whole day and a half of nonstop note taking, planning, and writing :'^) took reference from the manga and 2012 movies, however i did throw in a little of my own freedom bc i love myself.


End file.
